Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(56)

“What’s all that?” he asks, watching me dump out my small bag.

“Sunscreen, fin screws, fin key.” I hold up the bottle, offering.

“I put some on already, thanks, though.”

I nod, unsure how to handle Quiet Luke, shaking the bottle to stall before undressing. But I might as well just get this over with; I’ve never liked wearing wetsuits, even in the icy Pacific Ocean, and instead surf in a swimsuit. Today’s selection is pretty modest—a one-piece—but we’re going to be wet and practically naked together for the next few hours; there’s no point in letting the moment grow heavy now.

I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it to the sand before unbuttoning my shorts and stepping out of them.

“I like this place,” Luke says, hands on his hips as he looks around—pointedly not looking at me. “I’ve been here before but only for a campfire or something.”

“Never to surf?” I ask, smoothing sunblock over my arms and shoulders.

“Ha, no. I barely go in the water.”

I stop. “You’re kidding.”

He ruffles the back of his hair and looks a little sheepish. “Afraid not.”

“Wait, I mean . . . How could you have lived this close to the ocean for most of your life and not go in the water? You swim. You were on a national championship water polo team.”

“Yeah, that’s a pool. And nothing in there is trying to eat me.”

I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Luke, there’s something like—I don’t know—eight hundred thousand things that live in the ocean, and out of that only a microscopic percent of a fraction would want anything to do with you.”

He tilts his head and pins me with a serious look. “I’ve seen Jaws, Logan.”

“Do you play bridge?” I ask him.

Clearly confused, he says, “Sometimes, with Grams and some of her friends.”

“Statistically speaking, more people have died playing bridge in the last century than by shark attacks in the entire states of California, Oregon, and Washington combined.”

“You made that up.”

I might have made that up.

I toss my sunscreen to the sand and turn to face him. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to go in the water, then why on earth did you agree to come out here?”

“I already told you, I like you. And when you’re not handing me my balls, you’re a lot of fun.” The corner of his mouth tilts up into a smile before the other side joins it. “Even then.”

Honest Luke is really throwing me for a loop. “Do you want to do something else?” I say. “We could, I don’t know, see a movie?”

He’s thinking about it, looking out at the water with a considerable amount of apprehension in his eyes. “No. No, I think I want to do this,” he says, and then begins to nod, like it’s taking his body a moment to agree with his mouth.

“You’re sure,” I say, giving him the chance to back out. “I don’t want you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. I promise I’m not keeping score here.”

“No, I . . . I want to.” He reaches behind his neck and tugs his shirt up and over his head. I feel my lungs constrict at the sight of his bare chest in the bright sun, the definition of muscle cutting down his torso and bisected by sharp lines on his abdomen. I blink away.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” I say, voice steadier than I feel, and reach for Luke’s board. “Basics first.”

With a stick I find in a group of rocks, I trace the outline of his board in the sand and prop it back up again.

Luke watches me, confused. “Why don’t you just use the board itself?”

“Because boards are expensive and we don’t want to ruin it,” I say, and toss the stick back into the brush. “This is your board.” I grip his forearms and bring him over to stand in the shape I’ve drawn, and then point to the various parts. “This is the nose, the rails, the tail. This vertical line down the middle is called the stringer, and will keep you centered. Remember that,” I say. I point out the Velcro strap lying in the sand. “I’m assuming you already know this, but this is the board leash; never go in the water without this around your ankle, okay?”

“Got it.”

“We’ll go over paddling and everything when we’re actually in the water, but let’s start with the easy stuff.” I stand next to him, legs spread just wider than shoulder-width apart. “First, your stance. You need to make sure you’re in the center of the board, not too far forward or too far back. No, let me . . .” I say when he tries to mimic my stance, and bend, gripping his ankle, physically moving his feet into position. He’s so warm, bones strong and solid under my grip. “Don’t be too open; put the arch of whatever foot you lead with right there, on the stringer. The other behind it.”

“Like this?” he asks, demonstrating.

I straighten. “Perfect. Being in the center of the board means you’ll have more control. Always stay in the center.”

He nods and tests out the movement. “Okay, I can imagine what you mean.”

“Now, arms up—” I reach forward, trailing my hands down along his forearms until my fingers wrap around his wrists. I can feel the steady beat of his pulse under my fingertips, the heat of his skin. It reminds me of when he held my hands down, above my head, and my mouth suddenly feels dry. I’ve been trying to avoid looking at his torso and his arms ever since he took off his shirt—knowing I’ll only be able to remember what they looked like over me—but realize that’s only going to work for so long.